Shopaholic to the Rescue

  “It’s OK,” I reply, feeling my cheeks flush too. “Everyone here knows; we’re all friends.” I catch the eye of a woman in blue lurking nearby, totally eavesdropping, and she hastily moves away.

  “But this isn’t the way to do it. This isn’t my Becky.” She gazes at me in concern. “Are you overdrawn?”

  “Actually…no, I’m not,” I admit. “In fact, I just got paid for my styling work in L.A. I’m doing pretty well for money.”

  “Would you like a pencil?”

  “Um…” I swallow hard. “Yes. I suppose I would. Maybe.”

  “Well. It’s up to you, love. You have to make your own choices. Maybe you don’t want to buy anything.” Mum steps back and blows her nose. “But no more of this talk about ‘not deserving’ it. The idea!”

  There’s a short silence as everyone moves away a little and pretends not to be watching. I feel so, so weird. Everything’s reshuffling in my mind. Bits that have felt stuck for so long are coming free. It wasn’t my fault. At least…it wasn’t all my fault. Maybe…

  Maybe I could get myself a pencil. Just as a souvenir. Maybe that beautiful purple one with the gray bird print and the pale-orange wood. I mean, it’s only $2.49. And pencils are always useful, aren’t they?

  Yes, I, Becky Brandon, née Bloomwood, am going to buy myself a pencil.

  I reach for it, and as my fingers close over it, I feel a happy beam spreading slowly over my face. A kind of warmth in my stomach. I have so missed this feeling….

  Ooh. Wait a minute. So am I shopping “calmly and with meaning”? The thought passes through my mind and I pause, trying to examine myself. Oh, for God’s sake, I don’t know. I feel calm-ish, I suppose. As for “meaning”…Well. The fact is, this one little pencil seems to have taken on a ridiculous amount of meaning.

  The thing is, it is a gorgeous pencil. I’m not just saying that. Suze said so too.

  “Nice pencil, Bex,” says Suze with a grin, as though she can read my mind. Dad nods his head and Janice says encouragingly, “You’ll enjoy using that, love!” And basically I feel like I’m five years old again. Especially when Mum and Dad meet eyes and Mum says, “Do you remember the going-back-to-school shopping trip every September?” and I suddenly feel like I’ve whooshed back in time and we’re looking at pencil cases and I’m begging for a pink furry one and next they’ll be asking if I really need a new set-triangle thing, or whatever it’s called.

  (The truth is, I bought a shiny new triangle thing every year and I never used it for any math sum, ever. Not that I will mention this fact to Mum or Dad.)

  “And when we’ve bought our things, we’ll go and take some nice photos of the nature,” says Mum firmly. “That’ll clear your head, Becky, love. Doing something artistic. You can take a piccie of Minnie and me on a big red rock and we’ll send it to Elinor.”

  Minnie? On one of those huge great rocks? Is she joking?

  “Great!” I say. “Or, you know, beside a rock.”

  We all head to the till to buy our items, and the lady in the feather-print dress looks delighted. And then, just as it’s my turn and I’m about to hand over my five-dollar bill, I see a big box of the same hand-printed pencils, marked SPECIAL OFFER: TEN FOR THE PRICE OF FIVE. And I pause.

  Ten for the price of five. That’s actually a pretty good offer.

  Let’s see…I do a quick calculation in my head. That’s ten hand-printed pencils for…$12.45. Wow. That’s not bad, is it? It’ll be plus tax, but still. And I’ve got an old twenty-dollar bill that’s been sitting in my jacket pocket forever, so I could give everyone a pencil as a present! Like a mascot.

  “Bex?” says Suze, watching me hesitate. “Are you going to get the pencil?”

  “Yes,” I say absently. “I am. Although actually I was just thinking, that’s quite a good deal, isn’t it?” I gesture at the box. “Don’t you think? Ten for the price of five? Because I was thinking I’d love to get you all a little souvenir, and, I mean, everyone needs pencils—”

  There’s a kind of explosion next to me. I think it’s Suze. How did she even make that sound?

  “What?” I turn and stare at her. “What?”

  But she doesn’t reply at first. She’s gazing at me with an expression I can’t read. Then suddenly she grabs me for a hug, so tight I can hardly breathe.

  “Nothing, Bex,” she says into my ear. “Nothing.”

  —

  As we head out of the shop, I feel content in a way I haven’t for so long. It wasn’t all my fault. I hadn’t realized quite how much I’d been blaming myself. And now I feel free.

  We bought the ten pencils in the end, but everyone chipped in a dollar or two. Mum and Janice have already chosen one each, and Suze is hesitating between the turquoise and the pale pink.

  “Turquoise goes with your eyes,” I advise, as she holds them up to compare. “But pink goes with everything. Actually, have you seen the pale-blue one? Because it’s really gorgeous—” I break off. “Suze?” She isn’t even listening. Her fingers have slackened round the pencils and her gaze is locked over my left shoulder. As I turn to see what’s going on, I hear a kind of whimper come from her.

  “Tarkie?”

  Tarkie? Oh my God. Tarkie?

  He’s standing there, almost silhouetted in the late-afternoon sunlight, so I can’t see his face properly. But even so—and this is really weird—he looks different. Like he’s grown a couple of inches. Is he standing in a new way? Does he have a new suit?

  “Tarkie,” Suze whimpers again—and as I turn back to her, I see two tears spilling onto her cheeks. The next moment she’s running so fast to Tarquin, I think she might knock him over.

  The light is so bright she’s in silhouette too, so all I see is their two figures melding together in this endless, tight hug. I have no idea what’s happening within the hug, whether they’re saying things, or not saying things, or what….It’s like the black box in an airplane. I’ll find out afterward.

  If Suze tells me. Which she may not. Some things are private. I mean, we’re grown-ups now. You don’t share everything. (Except, I really, really hope she tells me.)

  I’m watching, transfixed, a hand to my mouth, and I can see that the other grown-ups are equally riveted. Even a few passersby have stopped to watch, and I hear one say, “Aah,” in fond tones.

  “Look, Becky.” Luke has joined me. “Tarquin’s here. Have you seen?” He gestures with his head.

  “Of course I’ve seen!” I hiss. “But has he forgiven her? Is it all OK? What’s he saying?”

  “Their business, I would have thought,” says Luke in mild tones, and I stare at him crossly. I know all that. But this is Suze.

  At that moment, my phone bleeps, and as I glance down at it, my heart skips a beat. Oh my God, Suze needs to see this. Right now. Surreptitiously, I edge a little closer to the couple, trying to hear Tarkie’s voice, trying to glean what’s going on.

  “We both went a bit mad in our different ways,” Tarkie is saying, his eyes fixed firmly on Suze’s. “But that wasn’t the real me. And it wasn’t the real you either.”

  “No,” gulps Suze. “No, Tarkie, it wasn’t. I don’t know what happened to me.”

  “The real you isn’t that girl in L.A. with hair extensions. The real you loves…nature.” He makes a sudden sweeping gesture with his hand. “The real you loves…trees.”

  There’s a long pause, and I can see Suze’s eyes skittering about with nerves.

  “Um, yes,” she says at last. “Trees. Absolutely. Um…speaking of trees…” Her voice has gone all squeaky and she keeps rubbing her face. “I was thinking…wondering, really…” I can see her screwing up her courage. “How’s…how’s Owl’s Tower?”

  “It’s just as it ever was,” says Tarkie. “Just as it ever was, Suze.” His eyes are grave and his voice unreadable. Poor Suze is peering at him desperately, and I can see her mouth quivering.

  “So, it’s…no better?” she hazards. “No worse?”

  “Su
ze, you know Owl’s Tower,” says Tarkie, his eyes flickering as though he’s picturing it. “You don’t need me to describe it to you.”

  God, this is torture.

  “Suze!” I call as discreetly as I can. “You need to see something!” Suze swivels her head in shock and makes a furious batting-away gesture.

  “Bex, this isn’t the moment! Can’t you see that?”

  “Yes, it is! Suze, honestly…Sorry, Tarkie, I’ll be two secs….” I hurry up to Suze before she can refuse again and show her my phone.

  Derek Smeath’s wrinkled face is beaming out from the screen. He’s standing in a dark wood, shining a flashlight up at a tree which has a nail hammered into it. As I zoom in, you can see a metal tag, reading: OWL’S TOWER.

  “That’s not…” falters Suze, her eyes widening in shock. “No.”

  “He’s there right now. It’s super-healthy, Suze,” I whisper, scrolling through the photos of thick, leafy, flourishing branches. “It’s here for the duration. Like you and Tarkie. It’s strong and thriving and majestic. It’s not going anywhere.”

  Tears spring to Suze’s eyes and she gives a tiny sob, then clamps her mouth shut. I put an arm round her shoulders and squeeze. This has all been so hellish.

  “But—” At last she manages to speak and gestures at the screen in bewilderment. “How on earth—”

  “Tell you later. Er…hi, Tarkie!” I add awkwardly, with a little wave. “How are you? So…I’ll leave you guys to it….” I back away. “Sorry for interrupting….”

  “Tarkie.” Suze suddenly dissolves into full-blown sobs, as though she can’t keep up a front anymore. “Tarkie, I am so, so sorry….”

  And then Tarquin’s arm is around her, strong and firm, and he leads her away to a quiet spot in the garden of a nearby café. Luke and I look at each other, and I feel a shiver pass over me. I hope everything turns out OK between them. I mean, I think it will. Tarkie’s here. They’ll talk it out.

  But it just shows. Things can disintegrate so easily. Only one mistake…

  “Luke, let’s not have affairs,” I say abruptly, grabbing his arm for comfort, and Luke’s face twitches as though in amusement.

  “OK,” he agrees solemnly. “Let’s not have affairs.”

  “You’re teasing me!” I pinch his arm. “Stop it! I mean it!”

  “I’m not teasing you. Really.” He looks at me again, and I can see something deeper in his gaze. Like an acknowledgment, like he gets it. “Let’s not have affairs. And let’s not use some bloody stupid tree code either,” he adds, with a glint in his eyes. (Luke thought the whole Owl’s Tower thing was nuts. It’s really not his style.)

  “Agreed.” I nod, and Luke bends to kiss me. And I find myself squeezing him back so tightly, I probably wind him or something. But I don’t care. It needed doing.

  —

  It’s a bit like waiting for a baby. We go into the café garden, staying well away from Suze and Tarkie, and we order drinks and make small talk. The garden’s quite big, with rocks and trees and shrubs, so I take a photo of Mum next to a boulder, and Minnie sitting on the boulder, and a lizard which we spy in the shade. And Mum says brightly, “You see, Becky, darling? There are lots of things you could do, if you wanted to. You could be a wildlife photographer!”

  A wildlife photographer?

  At once I know she’s talked to Suze, or maybe Luke, or maybe even both of them, about me having no job and feeling worried about it. And even though I’d make the worst wildlife photographer ever, I feel incredibly touched. Mum will never give up on me. Her basic worldview is that I can do anything. So I smile and say, “Yes! Good idea, Mum! Maybe!” and take about ninety-five shots of a shrub that we’ll delete later.

  Then the drinks arrive and we sit down again. But all the while we keep glancing over to where Suze and Tarkie are still talking. On the plus side, Tarkie’s holding her hand, and she’s speaking very fast and volubly at him, and tears are running down her face and he keeps wiping them away with his handkerchief. Which I reckon is a positive sign?

  The thing about Suze and Tarkie is, I think they both do want to be married to each other. And that’s quite a good start, for a marriage.

  Then suddenly they’ve stood up and they’re walking toward us, and we all get in a bit of a fluster trying to look like we’ve been having a normal conversation, not beadily watching their every move and speculating about what it means.

  “So, these red-rock canyons,” begins Mum loudly, just as Janice chimes in, “Super lemonade, don’t you think?”

  “Hi, everyone,” says Suze tremulously as she gets near, and we adopt expressions of “surprise.”

  “Oh, Suzie, there you are!” exclaims Mum, as though she’s been wondering where Suze could have got to. “And Tarquin too. Don’t you look well, Tarquin!”

  This is actually a very perceptive comment. Tarquin looks totally together. His hair has grown back a little from the dreadful style he got in L.A., he’s wearing a sleek navy linen suit, and his jaw seems firmer than it ever did.

  “Great to see you, Jane,” he says, bending to kiss her. “And Janice. I gather you’ve had quite a journey.”

  Is his voice deeper too? And he hasn’t stammered once. I mean, he’s only uttered a few words, but still. Where’s the shy, stuttering, bony-headed aristocrat who used to jump if you said “Boo”?

  I glance again at Suze, and she’s hanging back, as though she doesn’t want to be noticed.

  “Suze.” I pat the empty chair next to me. “Come on. Have some lemonade.” Then, “Are you OK?” I murmur as she takes her seat.

  “I think so.” Suze seems emotionally shattered but raises a smile. “We need to talk a lot. Tarkie’s so generous….” She squeezes her eyes shut a moment. “He’s trying not to be hurt, because he wants to mend everything. He wants to focus on your dad and that whole affair. But he should be hurt. He should be furious with me. Shouldn’t he?”

  I survey Tarkie, who’s shaking Dad’s hand vigorously, his face shining.

  “Excellent to see you again, Graham,” he says, and I can hear the pleasure in his voice.

  “He’ll work it out in his own time,” I say. “Let him do it his way, Suze. You’re together again, that’s the main thing.” I glance at her in sudden terror. “I mean, aren’t you?”

  “Yes!” Suze gives a half laugh, half sob. “Oh God. Yes. We are. Yes.”

  “Did you tell him about Owl’s Tower?”

  “I will,” says Suze, and bites her lip, looking ashamed. “When we get home, I’ll tell him everything. Everything. But not now. He’s…he almost doesn’t want to know. He’s like a tennis player in the zone.”

  “You’re right.” I watch him curiously. “He’s transformed!”

  “Now, Graham,” Tarkie is saying as he takes a seat, “did you get my texts?”

  “Absolutely,” Dad says. “Absolutely. But I’m a little confused. You say you’ve made ‘contact’ with Corey. Do you mean you’ve written to him? Sent him an email?”

  “Not at all,” says Tarquin. “I’ve had a meeting with him.”

  “A meeting?” Dad’s jaw drops. “A face-to-face meeting?”

  “Over lunch.”

  There’s a flabbergasted silence. Tarkie has had lunch with Corey?

  “Tarkie, you’re…amazing!” stutters Suze.

  “Not at all,” says Tarkie modestly. “The title helped, of course.”

  “But what was your meeting about?” says Dad incredulously.

  “About my new venture-capital company, seeking partnership with his.” Tarkie pauses. “My fictitious venture-capital company.”

  Dad throws back his head and guffaws. “Tarquin, you’re a wonder.”

  “Tarkie, you’re brilliant,” I say sincerely.

  “Oh, please,” says Tarkie, looking embarrassed. “Absolutely not. But the good news is that I have access to Corey. The question is how we can best use this access. It’s a place to start, anyway.”

  I blink at T
arkie, feeling impressed. He looks so grown-up and determined, in a way he never really has before.

  “Well.” Dad seems a bit shell-shocked. “Tarquin, this is far, far better progress than I ever could have hoped.”

  My mind is digesting this new fact. This changes everything. This could mean…I grab for my notebook, start crossing out ideas and adding others.

  “We were planning a meeting to discuss the matter,” says Dad. “Later on perhaps, when everyone’s feeling”—he glances kindly at Suze—“a little more composed.”

  “Great,” says Tarkie. “I’ll tell you everything I know. And now, how about a titchy to celebrate?”

  —

  We sit there for a while longer, quietly drinking and chatting and looking at the red rocks. And maybe there is something mystical in the Sedona air which empowers the soul, because I feel like finally, finally, we’re all calming down.

  As we wander back to the hotel, Suze and Tarkie keep touching hands as though for reassurance, and every time they do, I feel a swell of gladness. Because I do not want to be a friend-of-divorce. It scars you for life.

  “Your father’s wonderful,” says Tarkie, as we wait to cross the street.

  “I know,” I say proudly.

  “He’s Tarkie’s hero,” says Suze, and she squeezes his hand fondly.

  “What did you talk about, all that time on the road?” I ask with genuine curiosity. I mean, I know Tarkie and my dad like each other, but I wouldn’t have thought they had that much in common. Apart from maybe golf.

  “He gave me a talking to, as it happens,” says Tarquin. “Quite a stiff one.”

  “Oh,” I say in surprise. “Yikes. Sorry.”